Wickedly Dangerous (6 page)

He ducked, and a chair came whistling through the air where his head had been. Baba vaulted over his crouched form and threw a roundhouse punch into the face of the man who had thrown it, dropping him like a stone. She grinned.
This was more like it.

But Liam spoiled her fun by saying, “Damn it, someone is going to get hurt. I've got to figure out some way to calm these people down.” He cast a slightly desperate look at Clive Matthews, whose eyes were narrowed as he searched for someone to hold responsible for the chaos, and said through clenched teeth, “The county board has been looking for an excuse to replace me. This ought to just about do it.”

Baba sighed and looked around in resignation for a solution that didn't involve cracking heads together while cackling gleefully. The sight of a sprinkler system set into the dingy ceiling gave her an idea, and she wiggled two fingers behind her back. Water sprayed down over the crowd, instantly soaking everyone in the room. People squealed and ran for the exits, most of them looking equal parts baffled and annoyed as they returned to their senses.

She nodded at Belinda where she stood next to the control panel, elderly parents nowhere in sight. Liam gusted out a sigh of relief, spotting his deputy at the same time.

“That was quick thinking. Cooled everyone down anyway. Although no doubt the board will have something to say about the mess and the expensive water damage.” His face looked grim under its wet coating.

Also, running water short-circuits magic
,
Baba thought. She said out loud instead, “Oh, I think you'll find that the sprinklers went off by themselves. Some kind of malfunction, no doubt. From the look of the rust on that panel, it hasn't been opened in years.” She gave Liam a bracing thump on the shoulder. “And I'm sure there won't be any lasting damage.” Another finger flick turned the water back off. The woman called Maya had disappeared, making her exit with the rest of the crowd. Too bad—Baba had a sudden urge to have a chat with the mysterious blonde.

“Huh.” Liam looked up at the sprinklers and over toward Belinda, who was being berated by a decidedly damp Clive Matthews, his thinning hair dripping messily down over the blood vessel pulsing in his forehead. “I guess I'd better go rescue my deputy before she's forced to shoot the president of the board in self-defense.”

“In that case, wouldn't you be rescuing him?” Baba said with a hint of a smile. Then, more seriously, “I need to talk to you.”
And not just because you look incredibly hot, standing there with your soaking-wet shirt clinging to those broad shoulders and muscular chest.

Liam's eyes narrowed. “About who might have done this? Or about the missing children?” All his attention was suddenly focused in her direction, a constricted beam of penetrating light.

“Maybe neither. Maybe both.” Baba wiped water off her face and wrung out her mass of dark hair. “I have a possibility, but no proof.” And no idea what the hell a human sheriff could do against a supernatural-wielding opponent. But he still had the right to know. As he'd said when they met, these people were his responsibility. Besides, she'd promised Belinda that she'd help—and a Baba's promise was both rare and unbending. Much like the Babas themselves.

“I see.” He didn't look convinced. “Well, I have to deal with this, and we both need to change into dry clothes.” He looked admiringly at Baba's own dripping form, trying to hide a smile. “How about you give me an hour and meet me at The Roadhouse? It's a bar on the way out of town. You would have passed it on your way in from where the Airstream is parked.”

She nodded. “It's a date,” she said. There was no need for her to return to the trailer for new clothes, of course; she could dry herself with a thought. But she had something else she wanted to set into motion before she and the sheriff had their little talk.

There was something going on here she didn't understand, but she trusted her instincts after all these years, and her gut was telling her that the three missing children and Maya's magical riot act were connected somehow . . . and that things were going to get worse before they got better.

It was time to call in some assistance—and she had just the men for the job.

THE ALLEY WHERE
Baba had left the BMW was dark and smelled like things best not looked at closely, but it was also deserted and likely to stay that way, which suited her purposes just fine. She could ignore the smell; this wouldn't take long.

She brushed away a drop of water that rolled down her neck and tried to pull her clammy tee shirt off over her head. The damp cloth clung to her curves, thwarting her, and she finally just growled and snapped her fingers. The shirt vanished with a faint “pop,” leaving her clad in dry leather pants, a black lace bra, and three elaborate tattoos.

A white dragon with green eyes coiled around her right bicep, a red dragon with slanted golden eyes curled around her left bicep, and a black dragon with long whiskers lay across her upper back and shoulders. She stroked them like the old friends they were, and recited a summoning chant in Russian that brought back memories of the old Baba standing in front of a smoky fireplace, stirring something that smelled worse than this alley. The memory made her smile, and helped her ignore the tiny shuddering sting each tattoo let off as it shivered and squirmed, eyes glowing momentarily in the dark night.

“There,” she said to herself in a satisfied tone. “That ought to put the cat among the pigeons.”

She hummed a little as she glanced down at the black leather pants, and shook her head. With another snap, she pulled more suitable clothing out of the closet in the Airstream, using her magic to transport it through the ether. Although if there was any outfit perfect for hanging out at the local tavern and telling an attractive but clueless shaggy-haired sheriff that his town may have been infested by creatures he didn't believe in . . . she didn't know what it was.

*   *   *

HE'D DONE IT
again, Liam realized, as his gut tightened and his pulse beat a tango against the side of his throat. He'd possibly maybe appeared to ask Barbara Yager out. How did he keep doing that? He hadn't asked anyone out in years, either accidentally or on purpose, and never said yes to any of the women who'd asked him. He put all that energy into his job instead. And yet somehow, he'd arranged for her to meet him at a bar. She'd said, “It's a date.” But she didn't really think it was a date, did she?

No, of course she didn't. She'd said she had something to tell him about the case, and he'd merely suggested a place they could meet up to have that conversation. That's all it was. Business. Sheriff business, nothing more. The concern died down, to be replaced by a certain disappointment that he shrugged off with practiced ease. Life wasn't a fairy tale. You did what you had to do and got on with it, that's all. And tried not to get trampled as the people around you got on with theirs.

For tonight, that meant listening to whatever Barbara Yager thought she knew—although since she'd just arrived in town, he doubted there was anything she could tell him that would help. Unless she was going to confess, of course. Still, he desperately needed to get a lead on this case and couldn't afford to dismiss anyone. And perversely, he enjoyed her company. Although he couldn't figure out why, since she was odd, mysterious, and infuriating.

Not his top three traits in a woman, for sure. It had been so long since Melissa . . . left . . . he didn't really remember what those three were. But not odd and mysterious and infuriating. He much preferred his life predictable and calm. That's why he was sheriff in a little corner of nowhere, instead of someplace noisy and crowded.

Although The Roadhouse was certainly both.

Liam eased the squad car into one of the few open spaces of the gravel parking lot in front of the long, mustard-colored wooden building. It didn't look like much from the outside. Which was probably just as well, since it didn't look like much on the inside either. Truth in advertising, you might say.

Nonetheless, The Roadhouse was a favorite with the locals, a no-frills country bar with live music on most nights and all the fried food you could eat, including the best chicken wings in the county, if you didn't mind having the skin on the inside of your mouth incinerated.

He left his gun locked in the glove box, since he was technically off duty, and strolled in through the entrance, wearing the same thing most of the others inside were wearing: blue jeans and a tee shirt. A few of the women were wearing tight skirts and dancing to the band playing bluegrass-funk with more enthusiasm than talent on the platform to the right of the bar. Round wooden tables sat four to eight people each, with just enough space between them for the overburdened servers to slide through with trays of drinks and artery-clogging delicacies. The air was redolent with the scent of old beer, new cologne, and the occasional whiff of pot smoke from a dim corner, which Liam determinedly ignored.

The place was packed—except for the area around Baba, who perched on a stool surrounded by empty space, as if she had an invisible Do Not Approach sign over her head. People were staring at her but trying to pretend they weren't. He didn't blame them. She looked damned good.

Better than good, really, in a skinny black halter top that revealed lots of creamy white cleavage and bared her flat midriff and toned arms, and some kind of short, hippie-looking multicolored skirt. Spike-heeled sandals rested on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar, and her dark mass of hair swirled around her shoulders and flowed down over her back. A half-empty beer bottle sat in front of her, some fancy foreign brand Liam would have sworn The Roadhouse never carried.

Mouth suddenly dry, Liam walked up to her and noticed something remarkable. More remarkable than the smell of orange blossoms in the midst of a dusty country bar.

“Those are some tattoos,” he blurted out. “Very unusual.” He slid onto the stool next to her and gestured to Tyler, the bartender, to bring him his usual Samuel Adams, wishing he'd thought before he'd spoken.
Nice opening line, McClellan. Smooth.
What was it about this woman that turned him from a tough rural lawman into a babbling idiot?

Baba's teeth gleamed in the dim light as she gave him the hint of a smile. “Thanks,” she said. “I'm quite fond of dragons.”

Liam had the feeling she was teasing him, but couldn't figure out how. Then Tyler put Liam's beer down with a foamy thud, and Liam decided he didn't care.

Cool and slightly bitter, the first sip tasted like heaven and the second like wherever people in heaven went on vacation. “Ah,” he said with a sigh, “that's better.”

“A good beer is one of the great blessings of the universe,” Baba agreed, taking another swallow of her own.

“You've got that right,” Liam said, making the “two more” gesture at Tyler when he could catch the bartender's eye. The tall, skinny man with fading red hair moved so fast, pouring drinks and uncapping beer bottles, his hands were a blur of syncopated motion.

The tip jar in front of him held a mountain of change, and he smiled cheerfully all night long, no matter how rude or drunk anyone got. If they hadn't attended the same grief support group for a couple of months, Liam would never have guessed that old sorrow wormed its way through Tyler's bones like bindweed in a field of corn. Losing a child would do that to you. Liam knew that better than anyone.

“Here ya go, Sheriff,” Tyler said, full bottles dangling from one large, big-knuckled hand. He winked at Baba. “Nice to see you finally hanging around with a better class of people.”

Baba bit her lip, clearly amused.

Liam just rolled his eyes. “I'm a policeman. I usually spend my time with either criminals or lawyers. Hard not to improve on that company.”

The bartender grinned, working some sort of alchemical magic with orange juice, vodka, and about six other ingredients. “I heard there was a commotion over at the fracking meeting. Did somebody finally take a shot at Peter Callahan?” His freckled face looked mildly hopeful.

“Not this time,” Liam said. “Just high tempers getting the better of folks. No big deal.”

Tyler nodded and moved off, taking his potent elixir with him.

“You know that wasn't just high tempers, right?” Baba asked, a serious look replacing her amusement at Tyler's good-natured ribbing.

Liam sighed, draining the rest of his first beer and plunking the bottle back down on the bar. On the other side of the room, the band surged enthusiastically into an Elvis medley.

“We're not going to be able to hear ourselves think in here,” he said. “I don't suppose you play pool?”

One corner of Baba's mouth edged up, and she put her own empty bottle down decisively next to his. “I have been known to knock a few balls around, from time to time,” she said. An evil glint flitted into her eyes and then vanished before he could be sure he'd actually seen it. “I find it mildly entertaining.”

They picked up their full beers and made their way through to the back room, where the repetitive clicking of hard-plastic balls could be heard over the blessedly muted noise from the front of the bar.

Liam grabbed a pool cue off the wall and racked the balls while Baba chose her stick. He pondered the many questions he'd like answers to, trying to figure out which one to start with—and whether there was any point in asking any of them, since his companion seemed as disinclined to give him straight answers as the wind was to blow on command.

He jiggled the rack a little until the balls were all sitting the way he liked them, then removed the white triangle and hung it back in its place on the wall. Across the table from him, Baba looked as cool and implacable as always.

“So,” Liam said, his tone studiously casual as he chalked the end of his cue. “How about some stakes to make things interesting?”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Gambling, Sheriff? I'm surprised at you.” She applied the blue cube of chalk to her cue, blowing the excess off with a gentle puff of breath that did risky things to the neckline of her top. “I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of carrying much cash.”

He shrugged. “I was thinking of something less tangible, actually, but more valuable to me. How about for every ball I sink, you give me an honest answer to whatever question I ask?”

The second brow rose to join the first. A slight rounding of her cheeks hinted at unexpressed mirth. “How very traditional of you. Questions. I truly dislike answering questions. Couldn't we just play strip pool instead?” She eyed him pensively. “No? Too bad.”

The base of her stick tapped the floor as she thought briefly. “Very well. For every ball you sink, I will give you an honest answer. But in return, for every game
I
win, you will grant me one day of grace out at the meadow; no harassment, no poking around. Peace and quiet to do my work.”

He pondered that for a moment. It seemed like a pretty good bargain; he only had to sink individual balls to get his reward, she had to win entire games to reap hers. “Done,” he said, and gestured toward the table. “Ladies first?”

Baba shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Although I'm no lady.” She assumed the classic stance, with her left hand forming a bridge to support the cue while her right supplied power to the stick. Liam was mesmerized by the sight of her bottom swaying as she bent over the table, but the resounding crash of balls colliding and ricocheting around the felt tabletop focused his attention back where it belonged. The innocent-looking cue ball spun slowly to a stop as three colored rounds plopped into the nets, one after another.

“That's solids,” Baba said brightly, and proceeded to run the table, sinking all of her balls with effortless ease, one after another. The steady
thunk
of her stick against the cue ball sounded like a clock tolling midnight. Liam just stood there, mouth open, as he lost the game without ever getting the chance to make a move.

“I think I've been hustled,” he finally said, as the eight ball slid neatly into the corner pocket.

The dark-haired woman shrugged again, eyes twinkling. “Hey, the stakes were your idea, not mine, Sheriff.” She took a long swallow of beer, then started racking the balls again. “But I expect you to hold up your end of the deal and give me the day I won.”

“Fair's fair,” Liam said. “As long as you don't do anything illegal.”

“Who me?” Baba gave him her best attempt at an innocent look. A man two tables over tripped on his own cue and fell into the guy next to him, almost starting a fistfight. Liam snorted, not impressed.

“My break,” he said. He'd been playing pool in this bar since he was in high school, sneaking down the big elm tree outside his bedroom window to come hang out with his friends. If he couldn't manage to sink a ball when it was his turn, he'd turn in his badge and take up spot welding.

He blocked out the chatter from the neighboring tables and the music from the front room. The elusive ribbon of scent that teased him from Baba's direction was harder to ignore, but he bent over the smooth green felt and inhaled the odor of chalk dust and spilled beer instead. The cue ball shot off the tip of his stick with a solid, meaty thud and turned the geometric precision of the amassed balls into spiraling chaos. The number three ball raced away from its fellows and slid into the corner pocket with a satisfying whoosh, like a rabbit diving into shelter with a coyote hot on its heels.

Liam felt a slightly predatory rush himself as he straightened up, cocking his head at his opponent. “Stripes,” he said. “And my first question is this: who did you think was responsible for causing all those people to get so out of control at the meeting, and why?”

He bent down to take his next shot, gesturing with the stick toward the side pocket. “Five ball,” he said. “Well?”

Baba shrugged. “A waste of a perfectly good question, Sheriff, since I was going to tell you that anyway. But I should make it clear from the start that I don't have any evidence; just a very strong suspicion.”